


Oh! We like them best as sweethearts, when all is said and done

by Gwerfel



Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long hot summer (feat. Dundy) [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dundy and cake, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Sexual Content, bisexual tozer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: A long hot Portsmouth summer slowly comes to an end for Tozer and his handsome lieutenant.Sequel to 'The little bit the boys admire', and 'If I like a thing, I like it, that's enough'.Terror bingo fill: Last words
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long hot summer (feat. Dundy) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662646
Comments: 28
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Oh! We like them best as sweethearts, when all is said and done

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't leave them alone, and this one got out of hand tbh.
> 
> Thank you Kt_fairy for enablement, encouragement and editing, as well as driving me to Portsmouth, and just generally being the wind beneath my bloody wings.

He comes awake slowly, which is a rare thing indeed, and he's dazed for a few long moments before his senses return. The sun streams through the window opposite the bed, lighting up the inside of his eyelids blood red, and he feels warm and content all over. He could very well carry on sleeping - only he hadn’t meant to doze off in the first place. 

Tozer opens his eyes, blinking away gaudy bursts of colour as he adjusts to the brightness of the room. The sun is still high, it can’t be too long after midday, which means at least he hasn’t slept very long. He’s on his back, his arms tingling and numb from resting over his head, and he stretches them in the air above him, rubbing the blood back in one at a time. As he does he turns to his right to see his fine lieutenant, fully dressed and sitting at his writing desk, bent forward with his long legs tucked under, crossed at the ankle. He looks like a banker’s clerk.

The lieutenant catches Tozer’s movements and turns to smile at him, pen in hand. Tozer nods in return, stretching still, turning his neck this way and that. As he does he sees a tiny shadow of movement by the fireplace to his left, a smudge on the edge of sight. It disappears under the grate. He tuts,

“You have mice, you know.”

“They are not my mice.” The lieutenant replies dryly, returning to whatever he is writing. “They are my neighbour's. I do not keep cheese in my room.”

“Well then,” Solomon snorts, folding his arms back behind his head. “You have visitors.”

“Does it bother you very much?”

“No, I don’t suppose it does.”

“Just as well, then.”

Nothing could cause Solomon any bother at this moment; he is too restful, his lieutenant’s mattress is too comfortable and his bedsheets too fine - the finest he has ever lain in. He doesn’t say that, because earlier the lieutenant apologised for an ink stain in the corner of the pillow case, and did so in such a rueful way that Solomon presumes these are far from the finest sheets  _ he _ has slept on. 

Solomon stares thoughtfully up at a crack in the ceiling plaster, listening to the soft sounds of pen against paper and mice scampering between the walls. He can hear women hanging out laundry in the courtyard at the end of the alleyway below; their laughter and chatter echoes up the brick exterior of the boarding house and drifts in through the window, which sits open precariously on one lopsided hinge. No breeze comes in, and the air in the room feels thick; it lies heavy on Tozer’s chest, pressing down, making him feel slow and stupid.

It is early September and the scorching heat of this long summer shows no signs of dispersing anytime soon.

He closes his eyes again, the lids heavy and sweating already. If he lies this still for much longer, he will fall asleep again. As pleasant as that thought is, he sits up with a sigh, swinging his legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the bare floorboards. 

The lieutenant continues writing, making no sign that he is either disrupted by Solomon’s presence or that he welcomes it. Tozer wonders what he is writing. Letters home, perhaps. Or else some kind of scientific work, for he has piles of books on all manner of subjects. It’s none of Tozer’s business, of course, and he won’t pry - he is only curious because he knows that asking will not get him anywhere.

That is one of his lieutenant’s peculiarities; Tozer knows him well enough now to see it. They've been in and out of each other like hares in springtime for the past month, but the officer has made it quite clear that he will share some intimacies and not others. Like the selkie women Tozer has heard old whalers speak of, once their coupling is over the lieutenant will slip from his arms and transform; pulling on his disguise once more.

“You ought to have woke me,” Solomon says, to break the quiet. 

“It seemed somehow ungallant,” is the cool reply, “considering I was the one who exhausted you.”

“Ha,” Tozer grunts, rubbing his chin and getting up. He yawns and stretches again, arms wide. “Flatter yourself, why don’t you. It so happens I was up early for Sunday Service. Some of us are still required to attend, even on land.”

“Ah yes, that most honoured of naval traditions,” the lieutenant muses. There’s a bitter sharpness to his voice which Solomon hasn’t heard before, “worship in the morning, buggery in the afternoon.”

Solomon laughs at that, twisting to show the officer his grin, “Well, I am still expected to forfeit my Sunday lie in, even if it isn’t my kind of worship.”

“Mm, I didn’t take you for a godly man.”

Tozer raises his eyebrows but lets that lie for now. He crosses to the sea chest which sits in front of the fireplace. There’s a dull pewter tankard on the mantelpiece bursting with pink and red carnations. Aside from Tozer’s own scarlet coat, hung on the bedpost, and the faded puce wallpaper, the flowers are the only lively splash of colour in the drab little room. 

He noticed them when he arrived a few hours earlier, only they had both been eager to see to other business, and they never waste much time on small talk. Though a familiarity of sorts has grown between them over the past weeks, it has done little to dispel the urgency of their fucking. It’s good to get to know a body, once in a while, and in Tozer’s experience it’s a rare joy to have your own body known so well. 

There’s a porcelain bowl set up on the chest, with soap and a fresh laundered wash cloth beside it. Tozer uses the pisspot in the corner, then points at the basin, “can I?” He always asks, just in case.

The lieutenant glances back and nods, gesturing for him to help himself. The water is warm and clear, and Solomon wonders if the lieutenant called a maid for it, or went to fetch it up himself. It's fresh, just for him. The soap sits slippery in its dish, greenish and marbled. He washes the parts that need it and then combs his wet fingers through his hair when he's finished. He isn't a vain man, but he thinks he'll do for the walk back to his barracks.

He peers out of the window from where he stands, not wishing to be seen by anyone who might be looking in. The sea is blue today, almost tropical. He has heard whispers that there might be a few postings coming up soon, bound for Jamaica, or some such place. Tozer would be pleased to be sent anywhere. At this rate he’ll soon forget what it is to stand on the deck of a ship. His gaze falls over the cream cravat securing the window, which has been broken for two weeks now. If left too long it might work its way out of the frame completely, and the glass is at risk of shattering in the pane. Solomon reckons he could mend it in an afternoon, but like the letters, that’s not his business. 

He begins to look for his clothes, the bright carnations catching his eye again.

“I like your posies,” he says. “Have you an admirer?”

“Not mine either,” the lieutenant replies without looking up from his writing, “my neighbour’s. This room gets more light in the day. He wants them for some doxie he’s fallen in love with.”

“Big Annie?” Solomon finds his trousers folded and hung over the end of the bedstead, his shirt and drawers tucked tidily beneath.

“That’s the lady.”

“He’s in for a broken heart, there, she’s a no-nonsense woman.” He shakes out his clothes and begins to dress.

“I imagine that is part of the appeal,” the lieutenant raises an eyebrow as his pen skates smoothly across the paper. It doesn’t scratch at all, and Solomon is willing to bet he never smudges anything either. He does everything the right way, every time, that’s something Tozer has learnt. “Besides,” the lieutenant chuckles, “he’s used to it.”

Tozer’s boots are standing beside the bed, upright, their heels together. He didn’t leave them there, and can’t help smiling. It’ll all come to no good, this fondness. These small and friendly acts have a way of piling up. 

“Why is she called Big Annie, anyway?” The lieutenant asks.

Tozer comes around to sit on the bed beside the lieutenant’s desk while he puts on his boots. “Why do you think? Seen her, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t like to assume.”

Tozer laughs again, buttoning his trousers and tucking in his shirt as he sits. “She’s got the biggest tits in Portsmouth, and a fair sized arse, too.”

“Ah, and that’s the attraction, is it?” 

“Well. We men are simple creatures.” He raises one foot to put on his first boot.

The officer finally turns to acknowledge him, pen still in hand.

“Oh, are you leaving?”

“Can’t stop here all day.”

“No, I suppose not. I hope you don’t feel I’ve chased you out.”

Tozer ignores this, for the officer often says such things; well-meant politenesses which are at odds with the rest of his behaviour. He will insist that Solomon may stay as long as he likes, while immediately dressing, washing and getting on about his own business. He will not linger in bed to enjoy the pleasant moments that might follow their coupling, but he always has a care for Tozer’s comfort; folding his clothes the way he does, allowing the use of his basin. There’s no rhyme or reason to it that Tozer can see, and the firmly marked lines become more jarring with every visit.

“You’ve clearly business of your own to attend to,” Solomon says, gesturing at the papers strewn across the little desk. 

“Oh, you are no distraction, do not worry on that score.” He proves this by continuing to write as he speaks, seeming to consult an open text and dipping his pen every other line. Tozer watches him, dumbfounded, then shakes his head.

“No, I’ll go,” he has clearly served his purpose here. “Shall I come next Sunday?” He asks, wriggling his toes inside one boot and picking up the next. They’re brand new, and still stiff. He ought to do some walking up and down the promenade later on, when it’s cooler. 

“Only if it won’t keep you from anything else.” The lieutenant replies. The casual air rankles Tozer, who tuts.

“Why would I ask, otherwise? I’ll come after church again, then.”

The officer doesn’t snort - Solomon doesn’t think he’s capable of anything so uncouth - but he exhales lightly, nostrils flaring, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Overwarm and still mildly riled, Tozer finishes with his boots and lets his foot drop with a heavy stamp.

“I am a believer, by the way,” he says.

“Hm?” The lieutenant does not look up from his writing, perhaps thinking he’s already dismissed him.

“You said you didn’t take me for a godly man,” Solomon presses, “but I am.”

“My apologies.”

“My quarrel is with all that Church of England popery, not the Almighty himself.”

At last, the officer sets down his pen and turns to regard Solomon with a look of curious interest. “Church of England  _ popery _ ?”

Tozer shrugs. He lies back across the bed to reach for his jacket on the opposite post, “popery and frippery. I can find my own way to God.”

“Well, I’d never have guessed.”

He has the lieutenant's full attention now, he's swivelled in his seat, he has  _ that _ look in his roguish black eyes. Tozer isn’t sure what he’s said to make himself suddenly interesting, but he leans into it cautiously.

"How we were brought up," he sits up again, pulling on his coat. It's far too warm for it. "What’s my business is my business, and I keep it between my conscience and God.”

“And the gospel?”

“That’s for every man to figure for himself. Don’t need a vicar to tell me what sin is.”

“Goodness, you sound like a radical.” There’s a gleam in his expression and a peculiar smirk which Tozer isn't sure he likes anymore. Solomon looks at the piles of books and papers covered in scribblings and arrows and calculations and feels foolish. He doesn’t know why he started this. 

"I'll not be mocked by you." He stands, beginning to button his jacket.

“You misunderstand me,” the lieutenant blinks.

“I’ve thoughts and beliefs of my own, you know.”

“I do know,” he’s still sitting, looking up at Tozer. His eyes are still mischievous, he catches the bottom of Tozer’s jacket between thumb and forefinger, rubbing lightly. “I find it fascinating.”

“Christ, you run hot and cold, you.”

“Surely I am never cold.”

“I don’t know what you are. A toff who doesn’t know what he wants.”

“That’s certainly not true,” he’s tugging gently now, Tozer has buttoned himself up to his chin, and the officer’s fingers splay over the red felt, moving up his body. 

“Fascinating, am I?” Tozer murmurs, catching his wrist and holding it, but not moving away just yet. He ought to leave, he’d already made up his mind to. He glances down at the black tipped fingers now smoothing over his hips. “Don’t get ink on my coat.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sergeant,” his eyes flash.

Solomon drops his wrist. Now he knows what has piqued the officer’s interest he knows what to do with it. 

“ _ Sergeant _ , now,” he sneers back, bending forward and reaching across the officer’s body to place a hand on the arm of each chair. It is half turned towards the bed already, but Tozer lifts it off its front legs, and the lieutenant in it, with a grunt. He rocks the chair on its back legs and pivots it so they are fully face to face. He lets it drop with a thud, and the officer’s eyes widen as he’s jolted by the shock. 

Leaning forward again Tozer takes his chance and kisses the officer full on the mouth, pushing him back as he does so that the wooden back of the seat creaks and they must both crane their necks. Solomon is almost astride him; half standing, half holding the lieutenant in place, a knee separating his legs. 

“That’s it, isn’t it,” he says low against the officer’s smooth, cool cheek as he works open the buttons on his trousers, feeling him already rising to meet Solomon’s fingers, “this is what you want -” he closes his fist around the lieutenant's stiff prick, eliciting a whimper from him, “you love getting fucked by a Royal Marine, don’t you, sir? That’s what makes your cock throb.”

The lieutenant gasps, clutching at his coat and bucking upwards in his seat as Tozer bears down and works him hard and rough. If that’s what he wants, Solomon will spare him no kindness. He knows by now that it’s his officer’s personal fancy to add a little spit to this act, or else some of that wicked ointment he keeps under his mattress, but Tozer isn’t interested in what he wants, and frigs him dry as if they were stowed in the hold between watches. 

This lack of care or concern appears to have the desired effect, and the lieutenant is soon groaning, choking against Solomon's shoulder as he spends with a gulp and a sigh, Tozer artifully directing his spurting cock away from his own coat and onto the lieutenant's waistcoat. He has no duty to report for, after all.

Solomon straightens and sits back on the edge of the bed, and has the manners not to laugh. He wipes his hand on the officer’s trousered knee, then reaches into his coat for his tobacco. He begins to roll up a cigarette while the officer composes himself.

“Quicker off the mark than usual, there,” Tozer comments, licking the paper to stick down. 

“You brute,” the lieutenant pants, flushed and limp. His voice is low and rough, he struggles to regain his posture, hands slipping on the arms of the chair. 

Tozer laughs and lights his cigarette, waving the match and tossing it carelessly. He sucks, allows the rich smoke to fill his lungs, then exhales. There is still no through breeze from the open window, so the fog hangs thick blue-grey in the air between them, along with the scent of sweat and spunk. He offers his lieutenant a puff. He often does, and is often refused, but this time the officer reaches for it, fingers hot and slick. He takes a long drag, watching Tozer, exhales, then hands it back. Solomon smiles appreciatively. 

“I had best be going.” The cigarette is moist from the officer’s lips, but what does Tozer care.

“After that? Certainly not.” The officer stands now. 

Tozer looks up at him with reserved interest. He hopes it is what he thinks it is. The lieutenant unbuttons his soiled waistcoat, shrugs it off and casts it onto the bed. He kicks the chair behind him, it skids across the bumpy homespun wool rug. With one hand he pushes Tozer back on the bed. Tozer complies without resistance, lying back on his elbows and watching as his lieutenant lowers himself to his knees and begins to unbutton his breeches.

Tozer takes another drag on his cigarette and rolls his head back lazily as the officer frees his rapidly hardening prick and strokes it before applying his mouth. Tozer breathes out, long and slow. The lieutenant has seen fit to favour Solomon in this particular way a few times now, and he is good at it. He puts on no airs, he makes no point of flattering Tozer, but sets about the task with undisguised relish. 

The service he gives is hot and close, he delivers long wet strokes with his tongue and performs devilish tricks with his fingers. It has Solomon straining against the bed sheets, his cigarette smouldering to a column of ash between his fingers. The lieutenant's tongue writhes over the burning head of his cock, while his right hand grips and twists at its root, the slick, tight sensation of it overwhelming him.

His crisis rises quickly, a heat inside that makes the heat of the room almost too much to bear, building to an ecstatic eruption which rolls through him again and again. The lieutenant’s head bobs diligently to the very end as Solomon’s prick twitches in his mouth, and Tozer sees stars.

When it’s over he lies there with his eyes closed, just a little longer. By the time he opens them his officer is already at the wash basin, splashing his face, scrubbing his hands. Tozer buttons himself up, stands. His legs are heavy and slow, but it's definitely time to leave now, he has indulged too long. He makes for the door.

"Next Sunday, then?" The lieutenant says, as Solomon's hand turns the knob.

Solomon smiles, turns back a moment and nods. "After church."

* * *

St Ann's is one of those modern chapels, not ancient weathered granite but tidy functional red brick; no proud steeple, only a white and green bell tower to distinguish it from any of the other square administrative buildings in the dockyard. Inside it is blindingly white, and Solomon amuses himself with the notion that this is to keep the congregation awake through the reverend's colourless droning. At least it is cooler inside the high raftered room.

He is seated a few rows from the doors. His backside is already sore from the pews, and it’s a relief to stand and mumble along to the hymn at the end. Once they are finally dismissed, the marines who make up the bulk of today’s flock - as is the case every Sunday - jostle and sway like cattle to get out, the aisle turns red with crimson coats as they filter steadily towards the doors like Portsbridge Creek into the sea. Solomon isn’t slow, but he doesn’t hurry, either. Almost every man has plans for his afternoon off which are unlikely to involve further prayer, and which they are keen to be on with, but they show the respect their training demands. There are a few devout officers, captains and admirals watching from the gallery above, and though Tozer is quite sure that not one of them knows him by name, they do have a way of finding it out if you give them cause to make an example of you.

Once they’ve passed through the white pillared porch and down the steps, Sergeant Mellet, who has been at Solomon’s back the entire time, murmurs, “any baccy, Sol?”

He sighs and reaches into his pocket. It’s owed, but Mellet always pins you for it when he knows you’re running low. He hands over his last pinch. 

“Cheer up, mardy arse,” Mellet smirks, pocketing the tobacco - the man hasn’t even the decency to smoke it now, he probably isn’t even short. “The worst’s over now, eh? The day is ours.”

“Coming for a drink, sergeants?” Private Kempe pipes up, coming to join them as they walk away from the church, cutting through the gardens of Admiralty House which are open to the public on Sundays. It’s quiet today, with only the marines using it as a thoroughfare from church to dockside. No wonder; the gardens are no prettier than they have been all summer, the brittle lawn so dry it is bone white in places.

“Nowt else to do,” Mellet replies jovially. “You’re good for that sixpence you owe me, I take it?”

Kempe cringes, biting his lip, “I will be, Sergeant Mellet, you said I could have the loan of it for another week yet.”

“Leave the kid be,” Tozer tuts. 

“I’m only looking out for what is mine,” Mellet returns, “there’s no one else to do it for me.”

“A fine motto for a Royal Marine, that,” Tozer scowls, which makes Kempe grin, guiltily, then duck to avoid Mellet’s backhand. They exit the gardens laughing, friends again. 

“Will you join us, Sergeant Tozer?” Kempe asks again, as they approach the mast pond. The water is low, a green line of algae lining the brick sides, and the water clear enough to see the slumbering timbers seasoning quietly beneath. 

“Not today, Private,” Tozer replies casually, “I’ll save my pennies and take a walk.”

“Pah, take a walk,” Mellet chortles, “off up Queen Street? Who is she?”

“Mind your business.”

“Like that, is it? The kitchen maid at the commissioner's house, that’s my guess. Can tell she’s a goer. Or some weak-chinned officer’s wife, eh? Bet they love getting it good and proper.”

“Where did you learn that charm, Mellet?” Tozer scratches his chin, “your mother teach you?”

“Go on, who is she?”

“Someone I don’t have to pay. Off with you both.”

“May as well sow your oats while you can, I s’pose,” Mellet muses. Tozer begins to feel real irritation.

“Why?” he says, “you know something we don’t?”

“Just heard talk, that’s all. North Africa, that’s the rumour.”

“Africa!” Private Kempe’s eyes widen. He’s barely eighteen, and has never left Portsmouth in his life. 

“I’ll believe it when I have the papers in my hand.” Tozer returns, carelessly. “Give my best to the dockside girls.”

They are in clear sight of the harbour now, and the taverns along the shoreline. Solomon bears a hard left, up and away, towards Queen Street. He maintains a strolling pace, in case they watch him much longer. It’s no skin off his nose where they think he is going, for he is quite certain they would never arrive at the truth, no matter how long they pondered. Men like Mellet haven’t the imagination. 

On his way up the long road, with the blue sky blazing above him and church bells ringing in every quarter of the city, he allows himself to enjoy the anticipation of the journey. Solomon is not one for protracted soul searching, deep inner reflection, or perceiving much beyond his current situation, but he will admit to himself that he has come to look forward to his Sundays. He finds that during the days between, while at his work his thoughts will often drift to that high up attic room. Companionship is not as easy to come by on dry land, and he thirsts for it all week.

There is a pawnbroker on the first corner he comes too, and he looks in the barred window with boyish interest at the medals on display. There are more than usual, it has been a long summer indeed for those officers on shore. As well as medals there are swords, gleaming silver with finely engraved scabbards and golden basket hilts encrusted with glittering jewels. There are muskets and rifles too, and even fine dark blue coats and jackets, fraying at the cuffs, some with buttons missing. He cannot imagine seeing his own dear lieutenant in such a shabby state, and hopes he will not see it.

He catches the reflection of his own red coat in the sun struck window glass. He straightens his back to see his full image, and thinks again of how he parted ways with the officer last week. If it is his uniform which stirs him most of all, then Tozer supposes that is not so very different from his own initial interest in the handsome young officer in a silk dress and boots. It is enough to be admired, even if it is only fabric and braid after all. 

“Ahoy there, Sergeant! I thought it was you!” 

Solomon turns, alarmed, to find his lieutenant's often drunk, apparently lovesick friend approaching him from across the street, crossing merrily without a care for passing carriages. He is dressed in his Sunday best, hat tucked under his arm, hair curled at his temples in that foppish way men of his class seem to favour. 

“Good morning,” Tozer nods in reply, furtively casting around in case anybody he knows might see them. 

“I was sure I saw you leaving St Ann’s, but I must have lost track of you,” the officer beams at him as though they were old friends. Considering that the handful of times Tozer has encountered him he has been nearly incoherent with drink (except for a truly startling occurrence in which the man had been sleepwalking) , Tozer presumes that they must be more than acquaintances by now. 

“You were at the service, sir?” Tozer is still not certain on the name. In his mind he calls him ‘Lieutenant Dundy’, though he’s sure he must have misheard that.

“Oh yes, I do try to get down at least once a month - promised mother, you know.”

“Quite right, sir.”

“I say, were you on your way up to Mrs Partridge’s too?”

“Mrs Partridge’s?”

“Indeed Sergeant! Finest  _ patissiere _ in Portsmouth, and I would challenge any man that spoke otherwise! Just up here, follow me.”

Baffled, only half understanding what he is doing, Solomon obeys him nonetheless, and the two of them proceed up the street further. He is surprised and much relieved to find that the officer was talking about a bakery - and a very expensive one, by the looks of things, Tozer is as dazzled by this window display as he was by the pawnbroker's. Rows and rows of cakes, some no larger than the bowl of a teaspoon, in all sorts of dainty shapes and iced in pink, lavender and palest green. Each is decorated with glistening ruby cherries, fine sugar lace or fondant rose petals - it looks more like a millinery than a bakery.

“Genoese fancies,” the lieutenant breathes reverently beside him, and Tozer recalls the black treacle incident. “I am taking a box to a very dear lady friend of mine,” he explains.

“Very good, sir,” Tozer nods. 

He expects Big Annie will be pleased with such an extravagant gift, though his own stomach turns at the thought of eating an entire box of them. At the very back of the window display, on a high silver tray, he spies a pile of a dozen currant buns. They remind him of home; his mother bought them as a treat, or on birthdays. They look bulky and plain behind all of the delicate little morsels at the front.

“Do you think she will like them?” The officer is asking him. “Sweets to tempt a sweetheart, I thought.” 

“I’m sure she will, sir.”

“I cannot decide. Which would you choose, Sergeant?”

“Me, sir? Oh, no, I wasn’t-- I was only walking past, you see.”

“Ah, where are my manners!” Lieutenant Dundy claps him on the arm, “I am keeping you from your Sunday visit! Awfully good of you to keep him entertained, you know, it’s filthy luck being on land all summer. One feels at such a loose end, what?”

“Er… quite right, sir,” Tozer feels at the end of his limit with this man. He is no more comprehensible sober. 

“Well, I shan’t make any further demands on your time, my good man, I’ve a young lady’s heart to win. Good day!”

“...good day, sir,” Tozer gives a dazed nod and walks slowly away. 

The ‘Sunday visit’ comment he shall have to let pass - there wasn’t any malice in it, and so he assumes his lieutenant’s affable friend is innocent of their afternoons - or ignorant. At any rate, Solomon is glad that the dandy will not be bringing his box of treats back to the boarding house, where they will surely tempt more mice before they can tempt Big Annie.

Tozer himself has never given any sort of love token, not being the sort of man to spend money carelessly. Nor has he ever expected much from his own lovers, except for their company, and a bit of affection. Even a currant bun could not compare with that after a good rogering. Heat rushes to his groin and he walks faster.

The door to the officers’ boarding house is always left on the latch, and he lets himself in the front as always. He climbs the groaning staircase nimbly - his boots are well worn in by now - and almost enters without knocking. He stops himself and raps three times quickly.

“Yes?”

He opens the door, and there is his lieutenant in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, near the window as if he was looking out a moment ago. “There you are,” he says, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“I was waylaid outside the baker's,” Solomon explains, closing the door behind him. He's breathing hard from the climb, the room is so hot. The officer grins fully, already untucking his shirt, pulling at his braces,

“Ah well,” he says, moving towards the bed, “you are here now.”

* * *

“Well, just have a look at this little chap,” Tozer nods as a mouse begins to climb up the long heavy drapes over the window. The creature clambers quickly, its tiny paws gripping the fabric, tail stuck out like a candle wick for balance. It only gets so far before it falls, plummeting straight down and hitting the floorboards with a comical thump.

“Oh!” the lieutenant exclaims, raising his head and laughing as the little mouse shakes itself and begins to attempt the journey again. “He’ll never make a topman.”

He rests his head back again, and his hair sweeps across Tozer’s arm, which is still wrapped underneath the lieutenant's broad shoulders. His skin is warm, and there is so much of it pressing against Solomon that it would be enough to stir him once more in a few minutes. He strokes his fingers lazily up and down his officer’s arm from wrist to elbow. The officer lies back against him with his full weight, both sprawling on the bed, naked and gleaming, skin pink and limbs scattered. The sheets have gathered at the foot of the bed, rucked and creased like a pile of cream on one of those fancy french cakes.

Solomon feels so peaceful, his unruly desires lie still in his breast. All week in the barracks, when he is lying in his narrow bunk, his thoughts have turned most often to this moment of shared contentment. 

Tozer moves his other arm to wrap around the Lieutenant's waist, but it seems he has already pushed his luck. 

The officer begins to pull away, Tozer tries to keep him, murmurs "stay," softly into his hair, but it is all for nothing.

The lieutenant twists enough to give him a distant smile, muttering, "don't be silly," and quickly sits up, bobbing his head to untangle himself from Solomon's arms and haul himself up out of bed. 

“I didn’t have the water heated, this time,” he says, his voice no longer low in his throat but with a gloss on it; back in uniform. “Seemed rather counterintuitive in this blasted heat, eh?”

He picks up their clothes as he goes, folding them with deft practised ease. Tozer begins to wonder if the lieutenant would like to tidy him up too, put him back in his proper place.

“Must you be up right away?” Tozer asks, sitting up.

“Oh - do not think you must get up too,” the officer says, splashing his face, his neck, and then soaking the corner of the washcloth in the water, “of course you may lounge about as long as you wish, you know that.”

Solomon watches him, perplexed. The lieutenant manages to look elegant, even stark bollock naked, dabbing gingerly between his legs like a wrung out doxie.

“I’d rather not  _ lounge about _ alone.” He says.

The officer stops what he is doing and looks at him. He blinks, then looks down, washing his hands again, “I do not wish to confuse things between us, Sergeant. To… compound them.” He stoops to gather up his trousers.

“I’m looking for a bit of spooning, not to have you to wife.” Tozer says, irritated and confused. “Haven’t we been at it long enough now?”

“There is really no need for that kind of talk,” the lieutenant replies. His voice is fiercely calm, and has that edge of authority which makes Tozer feel he is being instructed to keep himself in check. He has an urge to shout, but knows better than to be so foolish, and swallows it down. Instead he stands, skin prickling where the sweat hasn’t dried yet.

He does not know why he ought to be ashamed; he has not pressed the lieutenant into anything he would not do himself, he has not once been dishonest about himself or his wants. 

Solomon dresses quickly, not waiting to use the basin at all. The officer dresses in silence beside him, shooting him wary glances. They both navigate the room, clumsily stepping into trousers and pulling up socks, keeling one-footed like boys on their first voyage. 

There are no flowers on the mantelpiece today, Tozer supposes they were not enough inducement for whatever it is Lieutenant Dundy seems to want from Big Annie. The cravat is still tied to the window, blackening from chimney soot and stained with rust from the hinge. Rage surges in him at the sight. 

"Ought to get that fixed." He tugs on it, "that's no proper way to mend it, only make it worse in the long run."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion,” the lieutenant snaps acidly. He is fully dressed, though his face is red. His eyes have that same fever brightness they get after fucking, only now they are narrowed and full of spite. “If the room isn't to your liking then you may as well stop coming, I do not summon you here by force."

“Perhaps I shan’t come next Sunday, then.” Tozer snatches up his boot, yanking it on still standing.

“As you please.”

“I may not be able to anyway. I expect a posting any day now, and shall be shoving off. Away some years, no doubt.” He wins his struggle with the second boot.

“That sounds extremely agreeable. I wish you good luck in your endeavours, Sergeant.”

Tozer yanks his coat from the bedpost and marches straight out of the door, pulling it on as he storms down the stairs and as far from the building as he can possibly get.

* * *

He does not believe in fate, and he doesn't believe that speaking a thing calls it into being. Nevertheless, only two days after he and the lieutenant parted on such vicious terms, Solomon receives the letter he has been waiting for. He’ll be posted to _HMS Ready_ for a year on the African coast patrolling for slavers. It's dangerous work, but it will suit him, he knows that already. They want plenty of marines; Mellet and Kempe get their notice too, and the ship is due to sail in two weeks. 

He fixes his mind on that date, and all the preparations for it. There is plenty of work to be done and to oversee; he takes the newest recruits in hand, he inspects his men, ensuring they are well equipped and their muskets clean. By the end of the week his men must be the most well-drilled in the company. He tries not to think about next Sunday, or the lieutenant.

It is a loss, he can admit that much, but he won’t brood over it and he’s perfectly sure that the officer won’t either. Better that they end things quick; better than some long drawn out farewell which neither of them will truly mean. 

Friday is payday, and Tozer is back on guard duty in his sentry box in the dockyard. He watches the sea this afternoon with a renewed perspective now he knows that he is bound to sail again. It's as if the ocean stretches further today, the horizon seems broader. It looks like a fresh start, a cool breeze. On land the weather is still close and muggy, but just as his watch is coming to an end mauve clouds roll in like boulders, heavy grey and rumbling. A storm is on it's way. 

The boast carved inside the box about Big Annie has faded somewhat, and been appended with even lewder commentary, as well as one drawing which Tozer can barely make head nor tail of, and another which is clear enough. He wonders if Big Annie knows about it. Having met her now, Solomon is quite sure that these scrawlings are nothing more than bravado - she would never come traipsing up to the dockyard, she has a very fine situation of her own; a poster bed with hangings, and even a copper bath which she will fill up for you for an extra shilling. That is a very pleasant notion, this evening. 

He has leave to spend a few days at leisure before sailing. Those who have families will be away for the weekend to say their goodbyes to wives, or their best girls. Even if Solomon felt like an eight hour coach journey, which he never does, he would not think to go and see his brothers and sisters, or even his dear mother. Such a brief visit only to herald another long absence - it isn't worth shaking everybody up for.

Mellet is determined that they spend their last week on land whoring and drinking and making merry, and Tozer hasn’t much excuse not to. He has enough saved up for a final hurrah; the past month has cost him very little. 

He is relieved of his post at five o’clock and after reporting to the armoury walks directly to The Hard. It’s a bright summer evening, and most of the dockyard is still at work, so he makes his way slowly, in no hurry. He will have an early supper, and wait for his friends to join him. At least Solomon doesn’t owe Mellet anything today. 

The girls are out and looking to begin their evening’s trade. They smile at him as he passes, widen their eyes and wiggle their hips. There are women of every age, of every shape and height and manner. He makes a point of looking at each of them, but more than anything he’s hungry and thirsty, and it would only take the wind out of his sails if he began the night with a romp.

Big Annie’s room is upstairs in the Mermaid Tavern, a pub right on the seafront only a few strides from the alleyway in which Tozer and the lieutenant first made their acquaintance. It is open fronted and low-ceilinged, the latticed windows in the side walls are small and grimey, some of the glass diamonds smashed through. There is a tramp fast asleep outside, slumped over an empty bottle, his dog whining beside him, and the young boy with the gammy leg who works at the Mermaid is spreading sand and sawdust over the floor in preparation for a busy evening.

There are a few customers already drinking, sitting at benches and murmuring amongst themselves. An old man is playing patience with a greasy deck of cards at the bar, and the scuffed and dented old piano in the corner stands silent. 

Solomon sits at the bar too, choosing the stool which has the most even legs and rocks the least. They’ve a stew warming in the kitchen, the landlord informs him, and it’s as fresh made now as it’s going to get, so he accepts it as the boy with the bucket of sawdust scurries to fetch him a beer. 

The stew is warm, and he can identify onion and a meat that he thinks must be beef. It doesn’t do to dwell on that too much, and anyway it’s well salted and tastes fine. 

As the day comes to an end for the dockyard workers, the Mermaid’s girls shifts begin. The girls of the Mermaid start to come down while he’s eating. There’s a curtained doorway around the back of the bar and one by one they appear from behind it, sleepy eyed and their hair neat. Solomon knows a few of them by name, others by sight. The newest girls are sent out front, they tug down the shoulders of their dresses and he catches the flash of their white thighs through slits in their skirts as they pass him. Annie doesn’t make an appearance yet, he wonders if her seniority grants her a lie in. Even the doxies must have ranks.

Waiting for Mellet and Kempe he stares at the bottles lined up behind the bar and the tarnished mirror below the loudly ticking clock. He isn’t brooding, but the beer turns his thoughts sluggish, and without company he knows he’s in danger of turning melancholy. 

He finishes his meal and his drink and orders another pint. He has to show the gap toothed landlord his purse to prove he’s good for it before he’ll serve him. 

The pub fills up quickly once the doxies are out, sailors, landsmen and marines alike, forming tribes and dividing up the floor of the tavern. Mellet arrives with Kempe in tow, who is sunburned, his nose deep red and beginning to peel. Still, he's beaming, he has not been able to stop talking about the voyage. 

Mellet, however, has his mind fixed on one thing only this evening, and will not be diverted from it. Solomon is already weary only one drink in.

"You know Jameson took the first coach out to Somerset? Off home to his wife," Mellet sneers, "can you countenance it? Running back to be nagged and put to work while he could be here for a week with no troubles at all."

"And Private Shaw, his wife is coming to visit him here," Kempe says. "I wish I had a girl - my mother has asked me home, but that's not the same."

"No," Mellet snorts into his beer, "it ain't."

"Still, I ought to for an evening, perhaps." The younger marine bites his lip.

"You do as you please, Kempe," Tozer says, taking a drink.

"Enough about that, anything take your fancy, lads?" Mellet is halfway through his second pint, and already leering at the nearest woman.

"Early yet," Tozer shrugs. He does not understand men like Mellet, who take such an interest in where their mates stick their pricks. 

"My mother made me swear not to come here," Kempe says, looking furtively about himself.

"Taking your virtue to sea, are you lad?"

Kempe's ears turn as red as his nose and the men gathered laugh riotously, slapping him on the back. Tozer looks away, uninterested. Nothing pleases him this evening, his mood is as foul as the weather.

The boy who works at the Mermaid is now dragging a great trunk, twice his size, across the floor. It acts like a plough on the sand he scattered earlier, the grit scraping across the floorboards as he heaves it, and he’s almost purple in the face. He has to stop every yard or so, wiping his brow and rubbing at his twisted leg. He’s a scrawny thing, with squinty eyes and ears that stick out. Marines and sailors alike either ignore him or shove him out of their way as he struggles on with his burden. Tozer sighs, finishes his pint, stands. 

“Here then, I’ll take this end,” he says, lifting the trunk by the rope handles. It’s heavier than he expected, whatever is inside gives a clunk as he raises it. The boy blinks at him, grabbing up his own side gratefully. Tozer bears most of it. 

“Brung it up from the cellar,” the boy says between laboured breaths, “got to get it upstairs yet.”

“All right then, lead the way lad,” Tozer nods.

They steer around the bar, Tozer stooping to compensate for the boy’s height, his back already straining with the effort. He must shoulder even more of the weight as they pull back the drapes and begin to ascend the staircase there. The boards are uneven, and the cheap velvet curtain which reeks of unspeakable filth swipes past Tozer’s face. The boy has the higher ground now and tugs at his end insistently, and Tozer braces himself as he hefts the chest upwards. 

At the top of the landing they let it drop with a hard thud, and the contents clang inside it. The boy sits on the lid, still panting, and one of the four closed doors swings open. 

“I’ve been waiting a bleeding hour for that box, Ollie,” Big Annie stands in the threshold, resplendent in a white nightgown, a hand on her hip. She is wearing a long green velvet robe, tied with a golden cord beneath her expansive bosom. Tozer straightens up at once, broadening his shoulders.

"Solly!" She flashes a smile at him, "aren't you a gentleman, eh? Well, come on then, bring it in," she turns and sweeps back into her room.

The kid looks up at Solomon, stricken, but Tozer just jerks his neck, telling him to scarper. He grits his teeth and lifts the trunk once more at both handles, following Annie inside.

"Set it down just there my dear," she instructs, pointing to a space below her little square window. 

He staggers across the room, legs rigid, fingers slipping, but makes it there and puts the thing down without so much as a huff. He straightens stiffly, and turns back to her.

She is a good looking woman, her hair long and brown with a glossy shine. Her smile is wide and bawdy, painted red, her eyes crease and twinkle merrily, turning her whole face into a picture of fun when she laughs. 

Built broad in the beam, Annie is a woman of great generosity and holds herself like a queen. Her skin is pink and white and soft all over, a man might grasp at any part of her and find delight. This evening she has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and speckling each cheek. Tozer finds them very charming, all the more because she confided in him once that she painted them on each morning with last night's coffee dregs.

“That’s my big strong marine sergeant,” she purrs, kissing his cheek. Next she goes to open the trunk, bending over and lifting the lid. 

He looks about the room. He has never been here so early in the night. It is tidy, it smells of lavender and lemons instead of other men's spendings, the bed is made and the lamps are up bright and unshaded.

"Where have you been, Sol my darling?" Annie trills, rising with two brass candlesticks and candles. She hands him both, and points him at the dresser, "haven't seen you about in weeks."

Tozer goes to the dresser and places the candles on top, one at each end. There is a chinese silk scarf spread over the surface with a faded pink dragon painted on, and a fraying edge. She has a wooden jewelry box too, and a bottle of very expensive looking sherry, unopened.

"Been working," he replies. "Seen the ship in the harbour,  _ Ready _ ? I'll be off in that, soon."

"Sorry to hear that," she says as she hands him two more candlesticks, these ones very thin and tapered, and nods at the bedside table. "You'll be missed, Sergeant."

He carries the candles over and sets them down. She is working on him, sharpening her claws for the evening, telling him the things she knows he would like to hear most. Knowing this makes it no less pleasant. 

"Kind of you to say, Annie." 

"Come in for a proper goodbye, have you?" she winks as he returns to her. She hands him two enormous church candles next, and directs him to the fireplace. 

"Just a drink," he says.

"That's what you tell me now, but I know what you're like when you all get your pay packets. Be busy in here tonight, you're a canny one trying to creep up early."

"I only meant to give the kid a hand," Solomon protests.

"And what a saint you are for that, Sergeant, he's in for a hard life, that one." Annie shakes her head. "Here, these can go on the window sill, there's a good boy."

"Oi, what are all these candlesticks for, Annie girl? This one's huge."

"Never you mind, sergeant, what you don't know can't vex you." She wags her finger at him, "I've a gentleman coming later who has some very particular fancies."

Tozer raises his eyebrows but doesn't ask any further questions; far be it from him to cast judgement on another man's enjoyment. Annie watches him set down the last of the candles. "Well, if you've not come up in hopes of a tumble, then at least have a drink for your troubles, eh?"

She goes to the dresser and picks up the bottle of sherry, then pulls open a drawer and withdraws two small glasses.

"That stuff’s not cheap," he comments as she uncorks it. 

"It was a gift," she says coolly, "meant to be shared."

He drinks his in two swallows, the glass is so small. He's never had it before, and isn't ready for how sweet it is; it sticks in his throat and burns. He coughs to cover it, but Annie's eyes are twinkling as she sips at her own glass like a real lady.

"How the other half live, eh?" She raises an eyebrow. 

"Get a lot of gifts like that?" He asks, his voice gruff as he fights back another cough.

"Oh, I do all right," she nods, handing him the bottle, "have another and drink it slow this time." She turns to the chest of drawers again and pulls out a skirt and corset. "Mind if I get dressed?"

Solomon shakes his head and dutifully turns his back. He pours a little more sherry, only because it's been offered free of charge and why waste it. He peers out of the window, but the view is only of the slate roof of the building behind. Annie has flowers on the window sill, old and brittle, and an empty pastry box with the ribbon untied.

"What do they give you things for, if they're paying you anyway?" He asks.

"I don't know, do I?" She chuckles, skirts rustling behind him, "s'pose they want me to like them best of all. Or to fool themselves that there's more to it than there is."

"Good swindle on your part," he comments, admiringly.

"I'm not cheating them out of anything," she says, "it is very pleasant to receive a gift, I'm very grateful to my gentlemen. I don’t blame anyone for wanting to be desired, that’s how god made us. Tighten me up, my dear?"

He turns around, she is standing in her underskirt and stays, and turns to show him the loose laces at the back. He drinks the last from his tiny glass - he rather has a taste for it now, the heat in his throat has made its way down into his belly - then sets it down to help her. 

"Go on, put your back into it," she urges as he pulls the leather cords hard. He has done this before, in reverse, and will never be so hapless again, for the thin leather is a devil to thread back through the tiny eyelets. 

"It is only business, though," he says as he fumbles and pulls at the garment, "you only put on a show of being sweet on them."

"Of course I do," she huffs as he tightens, her hands on her remarkable chest, "and they still pay me. It's the way of the world, Sol." 

"What about just enjoying each other for the sake of it?" he says, beginning to tie the laces now.

"Well you're in the wrong place for that, Solly boy," Annie laughs, "that's what sweethearts are for."

He finishes his work and steps away to scrutinise it. She runs her hands up and down her sides, then turns and beams at him, "prince amongst men, you are," and kisses his cheek again.

He smiles back, knowing he must already be pink from the sherry and all the work she has put him to. He wonders if he is the only marine in Portsmouth who has ever helped Big Annie into her clothes. She takes up her dress now, and he supposes there's no need to turn around again. 

"Is that why you've been gone so long?" She asks, her voice muffled by red velvet. "Got yourself a sweetheart?"

"Eh?"

"This girl you want to enjoy for the sake of it," she surfaces through the neck of the dress, "she spurned you or something?"

"Nothing like that." He looks away. "Besides, I'm off soon enough."

She tugs down the dress over the swells and dips of her body, sweeping her hair back. She smiles at him again, and touches his arm, "poor love, I know that look."

"What look?"

"Whoever she is, she don't deserve you," Annie tuts, “you’ve a pretty face and a big cock, any lady would be lucky to have you.”

“Do you mean that, Nan?”

“Oh, get away with yourself,” she laughs, swiping at him. 

He laughs too, and she gives him an appraising look, hands on her hips again. “I’ve an appointment in an hour but I’ll do you a quick suck if you’ve four pennies.”

He recognises it as a kind gesture on her part, but he’s still in a fractious mood and a hurried knee trembler will only make him more dour, he knows. Besides, if he has his end away before the sun’s even set then he may as well go back to his bunk straight afterwards, there will be no mystery left in the evening. 

He shakes his head, “appreciate the offer, Annie, but I’ll say no. It’s early.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs. “That’s as good a price as you’ll get tonight, though.”

“I’ll hedge my bets.”

* * *

Kempe is drunk and has been goaded into singing. He holds each note with confidence, you can tell he was one of those lads who sang honey sweet before his voice broke in. He looks younger than his seventeen years, especially as soused as he is, and Tozer makes a plan to look out for him once they're on  _ Ready _ . He is very green.

Annie chased Tozer out to fix up her hair for her gentleman, but when he came down the stairs with lip colour on his cheek there was cheering and congratulations, and he made no effort to correct their assumptions. He will be sharing the next two years in close quarters with these men and it can't do any harm to have such a reputation. Since then, the night has only descended further.

One of the old boys thumps and hammers away at the piano at such a satanic pace that the clink of the keys cannot be heard over the thud of the pedals. As Kempe reaches the chorus of his song half the tavern joins in; girls swaying against men, men raising their cups. The place is full now, heaving with revellers gathered around every table, packed shoulder to shoulder so that Tozer must raise his head and peer over the crowd to see clear out to the dockside.

God knows how long the two lieutenants had been in the Mermaid before he noticed them. 

It is only when Kempe's song ends, and the applause dies down, that Tozer hears a voice from the other corner of the room which cannot belong to a marine or a common seaman. 

There is Lieutenant Dundy, his hat bobbing over the heads of the rest of the men, head thrown back in laughter. And right beside him, a few inches taller, is Solomon's lieutenant smiling broadly as he tells the four or five other officers about him some tale or joke. Tozer has not seen him amongst friends like this since the first night they met, when he wore the silk gown. He is in uniform this evening, and just as handsome as ever; the girls are crowding round like magpies flocking to the winking gold braid. 

He stares too long; soon enough the lieutenant must realise he is being watched, and turns his head. Their eyes meet for a dreadful moment and Tozer looks away at once, a heavy feeling in his gut.

The noise all around begins to trouble him - a sailor has taken charge of the piano now, and is playing a faster tune. The girls are dancing, dragging men to their feet and kicking up their heels, lifting their skirts to show striped stockings. 

One of the marines orders another round, but Tozer’s lost his heart for the evening. The same cannot be said for his comrades. Mellet has a girl in his lap, his hand up her dress and his tongue down her throat. Kempe is half dozing in his stool, stupefied with drink - he leans against a doxie standing just behind him, his head against her soft breasts as she turns her hips slowly, stroking his hair. She's a pretty thing, dark hair and dark eyes.

Solomon decides he has had enough. He's not sure what will quell this turmoil inside him, but he knows he won't find it here. He finishes his drink, rolls a cigarette and gets up from the table. 

It takes him a while to forge a path through to the outside, and once he is finally free and standing on the dock he feels terribly alone. The tramp has awoken, and is now offering to dance a jig if given enough coin. His dog yaps and leaps about his ankles. The pair create another crowd which Tozer must bear away from to reach the seafront.

The water has turned black in the deep blue night, there are no stars, only charcoal rolling clouds. It will probably rain now, that will be exactly the sort of ending this evening deserves, he thinks, bitterly.

He lights his cigarette.

"Sergeant?" 

He knows the voice at once, and it's an odd feeling. Was he expecting this? Perhaps he was. Perhaps it's why he lingered. He turns and nods to the lieutenant, standing only a yard or so away, "sir."

"I saw you inside, but I thought… no."

"No," Tozer agrees. 

"Are you leaving?"

"Thought I would," he says. "No sport here tonight. You?"

"I find myself with time to pass once more," he speaks with perfect innocence, as though they are not having two conversations at once. Solomon cannot help but be charmed by it.

"Friends seeking company, again?"

"Yes indeed."

"Celebrating something?"

"We are all bound for China."

"Fancy that." Solomon inclines his head politely.

"And you?"

"Africa."

"Soon?"

"Soon enough." Solomon inhales smoke and puffs it out. The lieutenant looks down and then away, tucking his hands behind his back. Tozer takes pity. "Week after next. I've some leave before then."

"Ah," the lieutenant nods, swallowing. "A nice little while. Do you know how you'll spend it?"

Tozer watches him a little longer, enjoying having him on the back foot for once. He finishes his cigarette and stamps it out with his heel, glancing up at the sky. "Looks like rain, ought to get inside before long." He leans forward a fraction. "Know anywhere?"

* * *

The rain begins to patter when they are halfway up Queen Street, and they have just reached the front step of the officer’s boarding house when the heavens truly open. They’re grinning at each other like simpletons as they climb the stairs, having narrowly avoided a soaking. 

The house is still and quiet, bearing up stoically against the storm brewing outside. Four floors up, in the low ceilinged attic room, it feels as though they are at the very centre of the tempest. Rain batters against the window, rattling it in its pane - the officer has adjusted his cravat solution to fasten it closed, but it still creaks on its hinges and trembles with every gust of wind. Lightning flashes over the raging black sea and the clouds shift and collide like warships.

Still, the room is warm, and as the lieutenant hastily lights a few candles Tozer unbuttons his jacket, pulling it off and hanging it on the bedpost as always. 

There’s no coy offer of a drink this time, the officer shakes out his match and tosses it into the cinders of the little fireplace, and removes his own coat, then pushes Solomon back onto the bed with both hands on his shoulders. Once he has Tozer full on the bed, he starts unbuttoning his shirt hurriedly, and Tozer reaches up to kiss him. The lieutenant leans forward slowly, still trying to shrug out of his shirt, and tentatively presses his lips to Solomon’s as if granting a favour, or submitting himself to some perfunctory ordeal. 

Not for the first time, Solomon wonders if his officer likes kissing him at all. He thinks of Big Annie and her dead flowers and empty cake box.

He hasn’t time to ponder long, because the officer is suddenly pushing his hand down the front of Tozer’s drawers without even unfastening them. It’s a hurried gesture; the waistband of Solomon’s trousers bites into the flesh at his hips, and he cringes when the lieutenant finds him still unmoved and limp. He’s been drinking, but he has never had this trouble before. He pulls back, yanking the officer’s hand away. 

“All well?” The officer asks, sitting back. He is on his knees on the bed, straddling one of Tozer’s legs.

“Yes,” Solomon nods, “only… only give me a moment.”

He sits up again, grasping the lieutenant's braces to pull him forward and kiss him once more. The officer is more giving this time, he allows Solomon to wet his lips with his tongue, softening into it as he often does when Solomon is careful enough. Feeling heat begin to bloom again, Tozer runs a hand up his lieutenant’s side, bare skin burning against his fingertips. Solomon wishes he would lower himself further, he’d like to feel the weight of him. He strokes small circles across officer’s ribs as the window rattles again against the storm. 

The officer reads these exploratory caresses as a signal, and quickly breaks their kiss, grinning eagerly again and batting Tozer’s hands away to reach down and unbutton their trousers. He does both in quick succession, as if he there is no time to wait for Solomon to undress himself. 

“There we are,” the officer murmurs to himself, as he begins to slide downwards, and Tozer cannot bear it. He grabs his wrist again to stop him.

“Why the hurry?”

“What do you mean?” The officer replies, stroking his length now, which is at least half hard, “doesn’t this please you?”

Tozer swallows, “yes, but… you might give a man a moment to… to ease in and enjoy himself before going at him like...” he cannot think what he means to say.  _ Like this is your job _ .  _ Like this is  _ **my** _ job _ . 

A small frown creases the lieutenant's long forehead, “I am only trying to bring us closer to enjoyment.”

“You just want to have it over and done with so you can boot me out." Tozer sits up, sharply. Thunder rolls above them; a great tear in the sky, and rain hammers down hard on the roof like a volley of shot. The lieutenant reels back, startled.

“I thought you wanted this,” he gestures vaguely between them.

Their legs are still entangled but the distance between them has never been wider. Solomon realises it as if lightning has struck his own soul. They have pretended it means nothing, this distance, but he sees it now for what it is, broad and impassable. What’s more, he sees the officer for what he is; a man with a dreadful secret. Solomon knows nothing about him; he does not know his name, and yet he knows this secret. 

What must it be like, to live that way? Solomon’s own mollyish tendencies have rarely caused him trouble. He doesn’t make a fuss of it, he doesn’t go after anyone that isn’t a clear shot. Of course things were different if you were set on the path for command; of course you must take more care, and perhaps there were fewer sure shots - or just fewer targets. 

In that case a man would make the most of it when he got it, Tozer thinks - and then with cold dread and the final wilting of his manhood, he realises that is exactly what he is to this handsome young lieutenant. An easy target, a sure shot. Big Annie’s words come back to him, and he shakes his head. 

“I do want it,” Tozer says, “but not your way. If it’s just a whore you’re after, you’ll have better luck prowling the dockside, and leaving me out of it.”

The officer’s eyes narrow, he straightens his back and raises his haughty chin, “I do seem to recall meeting you at a dockside, Sergeant.”

Solomon feels the spite of those words like a slap, or a gallon of cold water. His shock turns to rage so quickly that had the weather not interceded on his behalf, he might have said something even crueler. As it is, a great clap of thunder outside fills the room with a blinding flash of white light, swiftly followed by a fierce gust of wind which finally rips the loose window open, rain and cold air gushing in and extinguishing every candle. 

“Blast!” The lieutenant leaps to his feet and hurries over to the window in the pitch dark. Tozer sees his shadowy form wrestling with the cravat to fasten it closed again, occasionally illuminated by the lightning outside, but he will not get up to help. He ought to leave. It would be no less than the stupid toff deserves. 

He lies back on the bed, glaring furiously at the ceiling, his trousers undone and his boots still on. Fuck the bedsheets.

“Told you to fix that,” he grunts, “said it would happen.”

“Yes, extremely helpful, thank you,” comes the sharp reply from across the room. There is a thud and an odd muted quiet as the window is finally fixed shut and the storm outside muffled. “Bugger it,” the officer mutters, “no matches. I’ll have to go next door for them.”

Tozer says nothing, staring resolutely upwards. He doesn’t think the officer can see him very clearly, but he hears him sigh and move across the room, banging his shin on the sea chest, “bugger!” he cries again, then tuts. “Will you throw me my coat, so I can go and fetch us some light?” He says irritably into the dark room.

Tozer grabs the nearest jacket and throws it at him, lying back down again. 

“Thank you.” He hears the lieutenant pause a moment before pulling the coat on, but he does, and then quickly crosses the whining floorboards and steps out into the corridor. 

Tozer tightens his jaw. He shouldn’t have thrown his jacket; he should just have given the officer his own coat and then made a speedy escape while he was in the other room. But he is in a temper, and feeling belligerent. Another thunderclap and startling flash tell him the storm must be right over the city now. On a ship they would be rocking fiercely back and forth, there would be plenty of work to be about. 

The lieutenant returns with a lamp. It lights up the Royal Marine jacket Tozer tossed him beautifully - and of course he wears it beautifully as well. There is something about the way he holds himself in it; back straight and manful as ever, but head lowered, almost apprehensive. The striking red of the felt and the gold stripes give him a lustier appearance, more forthright. Solomon feels his anger quickly recede, and something altogether more interesting take its place.

“I hope you are happy,” the officer throws him a disdainful look as he moves to light a second candle on the mantelpiece, “and I hope I have stretched it,” he adds, peevishly. 

“You look very well to me,” Tozer sits up on his elbows again. “You might consider a change of occupation.”

“Ha.”

Tozer tilts his head, “come here, you prissy git.”

The lieutenant sets the lamp down and sits on the edge of the bed. He cocks his head, “you have lipstick on you.” He says, his voice still chilly. 

Tozer raises his fingers to his cheek, “I was helping Big Annie with something.”

The lieutenant looks at him pointedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“I was!” Tozer protests, “I carried a trunk and helped lace her up. She gave me a glass of that fancy sherry stuff for my trouble - not that there wasn’t more on offer.” He adds hastily, keen to preserve the last shred of his pride.

“And you didn’t…?”

“Wasn’t in the mood,” Tozer shifts uncomfortably. He wishes he’d got up from the bed, now, he feels very much at a disadvantage. 

“You turned down the famous Big Annie and then came back here with me?”

“That’s the shape of it.”

“And yet you do not seem to be in the mood for me, either.” The officer says, still petulant. 

“So it’s all my fault, is it?”

Perhaps he sees Tozer’s face darken, because the lieutenant shakes his head slightly, the frown returning. The curls which gather about his face make him look like a schoolmarm with a headache. 

"Sergeant…” he begins slowly, “I had thought we were past this. I mean you no distress, but, well, neither of us have ever pretended our acquaintance was anything more than...  _ carnal _ ."

"Carnal?” Tozer blinks, shaking his own head, “Christ, you don't half make things hard."

"Well, that  _ was _ the objective, but…" the lieutenant leans over him and casts a look downwards, then back up again. 

Tozer cannot rally himself enough to laugh, and the officer gives a sigh, moving away and changing tack again, "what is it you want?"

Tozer twists his mouth. He’s been asked that before by a lover, and it was always very simple, then. He hasn’t ever thought to explain something as incidental as this. 

"Only for you to… to treat me as a man ought to be treated,” he begins, faltering, feeling foolish once more. “As a man who wants to be here, and who you want to have here." He huffs, exasperated, "why else do I keep calling on you? Why else do you let me call?"

The lieutenant says nothing, and will not meet Solomon’s eyes when he searches for them. The distance seems to widen, and he tries to close it, he touches the lieutenant’s arm, gripping the sleeve of his own jacket. He will make himself understood. 

"It may be...  _ carnal, _ but I will not see it in the sordid way you do. I will not." 

The lieutenant does meet his eye then. In the flickering glow of the candlelight Tozer cannot be sure if that is a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but his expression is softer, he has relinquished some ground. His onyx black eyes turn warm again, bright with flame and the blush of the red coat.

“A singular man,” he says, his voice very low and dark, and Tozer is satisfied that he does not need to fully understand to know what the officer means. 

As it has always been for them, once the agreement is reached they move very quickly. To Tozer’s delight it begins with a kiss, full and warm and entirely wanting. 

The officer pours over him, Solomon kicks off his boots and they lie side by side, their hands clutching and searching and grasping. Now the officer seems to make a point of delaying things. He slows every movement of his tender fingers as they slide across Solomon’s bare skin, he draws out every kiss and presses his long body against him with infernally even swells and ebbs. 

Solomon is already quivering by the time the lieutenant begins work on the buttons of his shirt, caressing each one, dawdling, while Tozer’s prick strains and throbs harder than he has ever felt it before. He moans with frustration, and the lieutenant presses his lips to his throat, tongue and teeth together just below his beard.

“Christ,” Solomon hisses, clutching at his officer’s arms, “I’ve got to have you - now.”

The lieutenant pulls back with a satisfied smile. He does everything the right way, every time. He stretches across the bed to reach beneath the mattress for his little jar, and Tozer unfastens the officer’s trousers meanwhile, freeing his prick, which is as hard as his own. 

The lieutenant sits up and makes to remove the red jacket, but Tozer stops him, "would you leave it on?"

His lover looks at him, as if surprised, then nods and leans over to kiss him again, “aye,” he says, smiling against Tozer’s lips. He is a moment with the slick stuff, and Solomon struggles out of his own clothes, until there is not a stitch on him. 

The lieutenant rolls over, turning towards him, and Solomon makes to get up, so that they may assume their customary positions, but his beautiful young officer lays a palm on his chest and bids him to lie down again. Tozer watches, half intoxicated and desperate with desire as the lieutenant in his red jacket and nothing else climbs astride him. Their eyes meet, and the lieutenant reaches behind himself to take Solomon’s prick in hand, and direct it slowly into him. 

The pleasure of entering him in this way is almost too much for Tozer, he finds himself gripping the lieutenant's hips, breathing out slowly and fighting not to spend the moment they both fit together as close as it is possible to be. He has had girls like this - or rather, girls have had him - on his back and prick deep inside them, but never another man, and never anything like this. The lieutenant sits fully upright, his hands grasping the iron frame of the headboard above Tozer, loose coat flapping like a brilliant crimson flag as he rolls his hips forward, upwards, then grinding mercilessly down, forcing Tozer to squeeze his eyes shut as he tries to match each thrust. 

“Fuck.”

Feeling his pleasure rising with the pressure and inevitability of thunder, Tozer quickly spits into his palm and grasps his lieutenant’s pretty tool with his whole hand, to ensure they meet it together. He squeezes firmly, allowing the upward movement of the lieutenant’s hips to do the rest of work. 

“Oh god,” the lieutenant sighs as he does, and increases his pace, pushing down harder still, so that Tozer cannot keep up, only brace against, as the officer rides him at a gallop, arching his back and fucking up into Tozer’s hand.

It is as if there is a great roaring in Solomon’s head as he spends so hard he thinks his back could break, every muscle strains, he bucks against the bedsprings. The lieutenant's movements grow loose and shallow, he shudders and jerks forward once more, spilling all at once over Tozer’s hand and belly.

“Christ,” Tozer gasps, blinking sweat from his eyes, releasing the lieutenant from his grip. 

“Quite,” the officer nods, head limp, his curls falling over in his face. He uncurls his hands from the bedframe, flexing them once or twice as though they’ve grown stiff from clenching so hard. Tozer catches one hand and kisses the red knuckles. He cannot help who he is, and he will not ask forgiveness either.

The lieutenant is kind enough to smile, before taking his hand back and lifting himself away. The room is cool for the first time all summer. The storm has moved back out to sea, but the rain still falls, soft and warm against the rooftop. A fresh breeze blows in through the gap where the window does not quite close, and almost makes Solomon shiver. His lover pulls off the jacket finally, folding it neatly over the end of the bed, then lies down beside him, wiping his damp hair back from his forehead.

“Don’t want to get up?” Solomon asks - and he doesn't think he’d mind. He thinks he’d probably let him have things any way he likes.

“Oh, no,” the lieutenant shakes his head lightly against the pillow. “Not for a long while, yet.”

Tozer grins, throwing an arm around him. He holds him close, and the officer sighs. Solomon feels very fondly for his lieutenant, and if these are the terms they part on, then he knows he always shall. He closes his eyes sleepily, and kisses the lieutenant's bare shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> The end...?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
